


Millennium

by JerinsJackets



Category: Derry Girls (TV)
Genre: Clare is suspicious, Coming of Age, Erin is in denial, F/M, James is a lovesick puppy, Michelle is oblivious, Orla is Orla, Sexual Themes, Slow-burn James/Erin, Strong Language, The New Millenium, The Troubles, Traditional Derry Girls mayhem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25047886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JerinsJackets/pseuds/JerinsJackets
Summary: As the new millennium approaches, so do their long-awaited 18th Birthdays. Soon they will let go of their childhoods and—to quote Erin Quinn’s diary, enter the ’uncharted territory of adulthood’.One thing the Derry Girls will never lose, however, is the mayhem that seems to follow at their heels wherever they go.
Relationships: James Maguire/Erin Quinn
Comments: 24
Kudos: 68





	1. London Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James returns to London and makes a devastating discovery.

**See notes at the end.**

**Song Rec: London Calling by The Clash**

Chapter One

London Calling

•••

  


AS THE CAB approached the Free Derry corner, rolling past the political murals that decorated gable walls, James Maguire lifted his weary head from the window, feeling the veil of depression begin to lift away. It was funny how the tables had turned—when he'd first arrived in this troubled little corner of the world and clapped eyes on the soldiers standing on street corners with their enormous rifles, James had felt like getting out of the cab and legging it back to the airport.

Fast-forward to the present, and he couldn't get back to Northern Ireland fast enough. How ironic it was to feel more accepted in Derry—a city with a reputation for being unaccepting, than he ever felt back in London.

He'd been naive to think that spending the last few weeks of the summer holidays in England was a good idea, but his guilt for not visiting his mum sooner had grown too strong to ignore. They'd spoken on the phone a few times this year, though James had been the dialler in each instance. And on the occasions she bothered to answer, she would harp on about her own life, never allowing him to get a word in edgeways. And he would just sit there staring at the wall, letting her ramblings go in one ear and out the other until his aunt snatched the phone away and snapped at her for wasting her money.

Recently, however, the missed phone calls had been adding up, and James had grown concerned. Deidre shrugged it off of course. After all, Cathy had been giving her the cold shoulder for years and had already demonstrated her capability to do the same to her own son.

But it hadn't sat right with James, which was how he came to spend most of the summer holidays elbow deep in chip grease so he could earn his fare for a trip back to Blighty.

Finnoula's was the only place that would take him on. Every other business heard one word of his English accent and immediately showed him the door; and that was putting it lightly. He'd worked himself into misery in that place, and the stench of vinegar and cooking oil still lingered in his nostrils.

Later he would discover that it'd all been for nothing; just as Michelle predicted when she and the girls came in to get their fish and chips one Friday night.

"If you're gonnae have a summer job, at least spend your wages on something useful. It's pure painful watching you slave away like this for that selfish cow." She'd told him, leaning both elbows against the counter.

"Michelle, don't," Erin had whispered sharply.

"Why? It's the truth, " Michelle's head snapped to Erin, then back to James. "The fact that you're the one makin' all the effort speaks volumes. She should be haulin' her arse back here, not the other way round!"

"She hasn't been answering the phone, Michelle. I'm worried about her," he'd told her, plainly.

"Aye, and what does that tell ye?"  
  


James' face was as sour as the vinegar he was shaking on Orla's chips. He wasn't sure if she was ever going to tell him when to stop.

His relationship with his mum was complicated to say the least, but there was no question that she cared about him. Michelle didn't have a clue what she was talking about, as per usual. She didn't know Kathy like James did.

She didn't know that Kathy wasn't all black-and-white like she was often made out be. Growing up, James had seen many different sides to his mum.

There was thoughtful Kathy who would take him out for ice-cream and read him bedtime stories. This was a side to his mum that he held close to his heart, and, unbeknownst to James, he would magnify those moments in his head, as lovely and rare as shooting stars.

But however much he tried to ignore it, they didn't change the fact that Kathy was a narcissist—often known for giving the date of his birthday "a wee nudge" just to suit her, and refusing to pay for school trips under the pretence of being 'strapped for cash' all while admiring the eighty-quid cut-and-colour she'd just had done in the mirror.

During his very first trip abroad, which had been sunny Benidorm, Kathy had been so busy flirting with the lifeguard that James had almost drowned in the background. He probably would have done if it hadn't been for Paul's swift action.

But despite all that, Kathy was still his mother. She had raised him (though Paul and the Hewitt family from next door had also played a large role) she had put clothes on his back and a roof over his head. And James didn't feel comfortable going about his day to day life knowing that she had not answered six of his attempted calls.

"Christ, I knew you were dense, but I honestly had a smidge of hope for you."

"When!" Orla finally exclaimed, and James put the vinegar bottle down. He wondered how the girl didn't get horrendous heartburn with the junk she shoved down her neck on a daily basis.

He finished bagging up their orders then dumped it on the counter-top. "That's twenty-five pounds altogether, please."

"I want an Irn Bru as well, " added Michelle.

James rolled his eyes, plucked a can of Irn Bru from the fridge and slammed it down next to the bag. "Twenty-five pound fifty."

Michelle paid him with a mocking smile. "You look a right spanner in that hair-net by the way," she jibed. "Shift yourselves, girls. We're gonnae miss Top of the Pops.

As they filed out of the chippy, Clare glanced back at James with an apologetic smile. Erin hung back and waited for them to leave before she regarded him gently. "She doesn't mean to be a bitch, you know."

"Michelle always means to be a bitch."

"Abrasiveness is in her nature, as you well know. But if you look past that, you'll see that she's just lookin' out for you...in a Michelle sorta way, " Erin tried to assure him.

"Well, I don't need her to," he sighed. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to close up."

Erin nodded. "You'll come round later if you're not too knackered, aye? I know you don't like chippy grub, but I think there's some of Mammy's lasagna left over. It'll cheer you up."

James tried to maintain his sulk, but he couldn't fight the smile that tugged at his lips. He lifted his gaze in defeat, his eyes shining. It was the first time he'd cracked a smile that week.

"That's borderline entrapment, Erin Quinn. You know I can't turn down your mum's cooking."

She smirked triumphantly as she inched away from the counter. "Nobody can."

* * *

The following Friday, James had woken up at half six in the morning to catch the bus to Belfast. He spent the duration of the ferry trip basking in the sun on the deck-lounge and playing pool with a group of holidaying pensioners.

The train journey from Birkenhead started off quite decently until a smelly, fat man pressed him against the window for two hours, and ate sloppily from a tub containing what looked and smelled like rancid cat food. On a jam-packed train in the middle of July with no air-conditioning or openable windows, what James initially observed as a 'not too bad' trip quickly turned into what he'd envisioned hell to be like.

Needless to say that by the time he reached London at half seven in the evening, he was tired, aching, and desperate for a wee. But he still put on his jolliest smile and self-consciously adjusted his denim jacket before he knocked on the door of his old house, a big bouquet of pink carnations–which he'd bought for half price at Tesco, clutched in his hand.

It took four more attempts before the door was finally yanked open, and James' smile snapped off, as he came face-to-face with a scowling, bald-headed man wearing nothing but a pair of union-jack printed boxers.

He'd stared at James expectantly, a cigarette smouldering between his lips–and when James remained dumbfounded he pulled the cig away, sizing him up. "Oo the fuck are you?"

"Uh, I'm Kathy's son James. I used to live here," he'd answered flatly, making a strong effort not to choke on the smoke.

"Right, and I'm supposed to give a monkey's, am I?" Replied the man in a jarring cockney accent. He went to shut the door.

"Hang on!" James protested, his panic rising. "I want to talk to Kathy! I came a long way, and—"

"There ain't no one called Kathy 'ere. Now piss off, you curly-'eaded twat."

When the door slammed, his heart slammed with it. He stood there for quite a while, his eyes burning with tears he refused to shed.

The realisation hit him like a bullet train.

She'd sold the house.

She had actually sold the house, and without bothering to let him know where he could find her.

She'd abandoned him again.

James dumped the flowers in a nearby wheelie bin and turned away, feeling numb. While his mind reeled, his feet must have made the decision for him, because soon he found himself at the front door of his step-dad's house—well, technically he wasn't his step-dad anymore.

He rang the doorbell, and Scrappy, Paul's ancient cloudy-eyed dog began yapping. James could see the giddy Yorkshire terrier jumping up and down through the frosted glass. Then a bigger silhouette appeared and Paul opened the door, looking much the same as the last time he saw him, salt-and-pepper coloured hair, and rectangular glasses sitting on a pale face–which was now pink with sunburn.

"James," he said, with a blink, and the dog darted under his legs to greet James, quite boisterously in spite of her old age. He reached down, glad to feel at least a modicum of happiness as he scratched the little dog behind her ears.

"Hi, Paul," he greeted, half-heartedly. "I hope I'm not bothering you—"

"Bollocks! It's great to see you, lad! Come inside for a cuppa," Paul insisted, his eyes shining. He whistled at the dog. "Scrappy, you old fart, get inside."

James thanked him and stepped timidly over the threshold. The last time he'd been in Paul's new house was just before he'd left for Derry, only then it was bare and filled with cardboard-boxes. It looked a lot homelier now, with carpet lining the stairs and hallway and various framed photographs arranged on an oak sideboard. One of which, made a solemn smile tug at his lips; it was of himself when he was little, wrapped up snugly in a matching tardis scarf and hat. Paul was with him, and they were holding up fizzing sparklers.

Nostalgia hit him square in the chest.

They would go every year to the New Year's Eve firework display in Westminster, they'd made it their own little tradition. Kathy never wanted to go along with them. She always spent New Year's at her mates' houses. Sometimes even Christmases.

"How many sugars do you take, mate?" Paul's voice echoed from the adjacent kitchen, followed by the clatter of a spoon.

"Oh," said James, snapping out of his reminiscing. "Two will do, please."

Paul placed their tea on a little end-table in the living room, along with a plate of biscuits. "Help yourself to a custard cream and dunk responsibly."

Scrappy ambled over, eyeing up the biscuits with a lick of her lips.

Paul rolled his eyes. "She might be deaf as a post and blind as a bat, but there's nothing wrong with her nose. Lie down, Scrap."

Scrappy looked over at Paul and immediately obeyed, stretching out on the rug. Though, she didn't tear her intent gaze away from the biscuits. James smiled warmly at his old friend.

Paul sat back against the cushions and relished in his first sip of tea. "You arrived just in the nick of time. I've not long come in from work. What brings you here then, ay? Fallen out with your mum, have you?"

"You could say that, yeah," he replied.

Paul frowned, his sprightly demeanour dampening as he picked up on James' dismay. "Christ, what has she done this time?"

"She left me in Derry, " said James, matter-of-factly. He brought his mug to his lips.

"What?"

"She's been back in London a year and a bit now," he explained. "But I stayed in Derry. She did come back for me eventually, but then I realized that it was only because she needed another pair of hands to help run her label business. So I chose to remain with my aunt in Northern Ireland."

Outrage ignited in Paul's eyes. "James, if I'd known she'd pull something like that I would have come to pick you up. You came all this way on your own then I take it?"

James nodded. "To visit mum. Her birthday is coming up but she hasn't been answering the phone. I got a summer job in a chippy so I could get on a ferry and check everything was okay. Anyway, I soon found out the reason. She's only gone and sold the house."

Paul's eyes widened and he choked on his tea. "This just keeps getting worse, " he gaped. "She sold the house? Without telling you where she was going?"

"Seems so," replied James, numbly.

"Jesus wept," Paul murmured. "I thought there was a limit to how low Kathy could stoop but this," he shook his head. "This takes the biscuit."

"At least I know she's okay. But if she'd just rang to let me know, I wouldn't have spent half the holidays reeking of sweat and chip fat. I even went through the trouble of buying her some stupid flowers."

"Listen to me, Jamie," Paul began, earnestly. And James' heart soared at the reappearance of that old nickname. "I know I shouldn't speak ill of your mother, or the woman I once loved for that matter. But in this instance, I think it's justified. She has no empathy, no regard for anyone else's feelings but her own. As we've both come to learn. But I'll always be here for you if you need me, that won't ever change. You'll always be my step-son in my eyes."

Paul’s smile was heartfelt, and suddenly, James didn't feel so unwanted anymore. His eyes prickled and he tried to fight his tears. However, this on top of the recent emotional trauma was the straw that broke the camel's back.

"Sorry, " James apologized, half-sniffing and half-laughing.

Paul shook his head and presented him with a box of tissues. "Don't apologize, you silly sod. You've just had a rug ripped from under your feet."

James wiped his tears and took a moment to compose himself. Scrappy seemed to sense his distress as she rolled to her feet and plonked herself on his lap. James chuckled and stroked her scraggly head.

"Bet you're chuffed to be back, ay?" Paul asked after a while. "I can't imagine having to live in a place like Londonderry. From what I've seen on the news, I reckon I'd be frightened to walk out the door every morning. And don't think I expect you to go back, you're welcome to stay here and live with me."

James shook his head. "I appreciate that, Paul. But I'm on a return trip."

He lowered his mug, his expression full of confusion, as if the very idea was ludicrous. "Nobody's threatened you have they, James?"

"No."

Paul's eyes shifted and he lowered his voice as if there were cameras in every corner of the room. "You're not being used as one of those sleeper agents, are you? Are they making you plant bombs for them?"

James laughed. "No, nothing like that."

"Then why on earth would you want to go back?"

He smiled, his mind generating an endless list of reasons.

He thought of Orla, and the barmy things she came out with. Michelle's cutting banter and shameless vulgarity. And Clare, the binding glue of their circle. The girls teased her and called her a craic-killer but in truth, she kept them all grounded—and in Michelle's case, out of handcuffs. Then there was Erin, who took herself way too seriously. Mrs Quinn once called her so dramatic that she'd find a way to drown in an inch of water. James had made the mistake of laughing at that quip and Erin had blanked him for the rest of the day in a silent (and very dramatic) rage.

He thought of his aunt Deidre who held as much indifference toward him as Michelle, but still gave him gifts for Christmas and birthdays. Showing her affection—if one could call it that—by pulling him into headlocks and scouring her sharp knuckles against his head.

He pictured the Quinn/McCool's kitschy home, his favourite place to be. Overflowing with warmth and familial chaos.

Derry was in the midst of sectarian conflict, it was printed in the papers and broadcasted on the news channels often enough. But there was more to the city than just conflict. For all the angry people who started riots and burned effigies, there were also kind people kicking about, people who wished him a good morning. People who struck up friendly small talk at the bus stop; a far cry from the miserable atmosphere in London where nobody had time for anyone.

Derry, a city that'd earned every right to gloom and doom, was the opposite, James had come to realize. But unlike Erin, James was not a wordsmith so he simply shrugged his shoulders, a sentimental smile playing on his lips.

"There's no place I'd rather be."

* * *

James spent the week he'd planned to spend with his mum, catching up with his step-dad instead. He was sad to hear that Paul's mum had recently passed away. He'd always been quite fond of Gladys. She gave him humbugs and taught him how to knit.

James told Paul about the grades he'd achieved on his GCSEs—three Bs and two As, and also about the recent AS-level exams, the results of which he was pretty anxious about receiving, a lot more anxious than he'd felt over the GCSEs. He didn't fancy having to do a third year at sixth form while the girls all went off to Uni.

"I'm sure you'll have done brilliantly, lad," Paul had assured him.

On the last night of James' stay, he'd offered to pay for their final feast at Wagamamas. Paul had outright refused, but James insisted and took out his wallet in protest, placing the notes on the little dish. Paul shook his head in disapproval and reached over the table, plucking the wallet out of his hand and proceeding to stuff the money back inside.

"Oi!" James exclaimed, trying to grab it back. But it was too late. Paul stopped short, tilting his head with intrigue at the little Polaroid photograph tucked into the clear compartment. It was of himself and the girls chilling out on the stairs to the science labs.

  
  
  


"I didn't realise you were so popular with the ladies," Paul smirked, his eyes aglitter with pride. "Which one is your girlfriend?"

"They're just mates."

James was about to explain that he attended an all-girls school so it wasn't technically an accomplishment, but he was quite enjoying Paul's admiration, so he left that part out.

"Really? I find that difficult to believe." There was a short silence and Paul narrowed his eyes. "Are you gay, James? Because I have nothing against it, you know."

James groaned. "What is it about me that makes everyone think I'm gay?"

"Well, I always had my suspicions. What with your fixation to barbie dolls and Disney princesses."

"They weren't barbie dolls, they were action men, " said James, defensively. "And secondly, I liked Disney princesses because some of them were quite fit, actually."

Paul nodded, but the suspicion in his expression remained. "Whatever you say, mate."

"I'm not gay!"

Paul glanced back at the photo. "Are the girls gay then?"

"No," he replied. "Well...one is, but that's not the point."

"I just can't understand how you can be surrounded by all these pretty girls, and not fancy even one of them."

James' eyes shifted and Paul didn't miss a beat.

"You do fancy one," Paul teased, with a shit-eating grin. "Which one is it then? The one with the earrings, or is she the one—"

"God, no. That's my cousin!" James reached over and snatched his wallet back. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. Even if I did have feelings for a girl—and I don't—It's not like we could ever be a couple."

"Why's that?"

James shrugged, distracting himself from the uncomfortable question by stirring the ice in his glass with his straw. "Because Derry girls don't get with English lads."

Paul opened his mouth to question him again but promptly decided to let it go when he glimpsed something like sadness drift across his face. Instead, Paul simply said. "Well, it's their loss."

James sipped up the remainder of his drink, eager to change the subject. "So, are you going to let me pay or not?"

"Or not," said Paul, getting up to pay.

The following morning he had seen James off at the train station, but not before scribbling down his phone number and repeatedly reminding him that he could change his mind about staying in Derry any time he liked, all he had to do was pick up the phone.

But once he stepped out of that cab, and the girls came bounding out the front door of his aunt's house, crashing into him like a pack of excited puppies, he knew that not even the Queen and all her guardsmen could drag him back to England.

* * *


	2. New Kid on the Block

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a new lad in town. Erin and Michelle are smitten. James and Clare are not.

.

**Song Rec: Teenage Kicks by The Undertones**

  
  


Chapter Two

New Kid on the Block

  
  


Just when you think the woman can't sink any lower," Erin raged. "She pulls something like this."

Clare nodded vehemently. "Aye, I'm ragin' for you, James."

They had sprawled themselves out in the living room. Erin, James, and Clare on the couch, and Michelle perched on the arm of her Da's chair, of which Orla was slouched upon, engrossed in her new Tamagotchi. She'd won the toy after entering a Girl Talk Magazine art contest, and hadn't put the thing down since.

"She's the devil incarnate!" Erin spluttered, passionately. "I can't believe she would do something so cold-blooded, so _heinous_."

"I can," said Michelle, though her tone lacked its usual bite.

"You can say you told me so, Michelle," said James. "I know you're dying to."

There was a brief silence, and all that could be heard was the obnoxious beeping coming from Orla's Tamagotchi. And just when they were starting to think that Michelle had the decency to keep her mouth shut this time, she piped up, unable to control herself.

"Well, I _did_ tell you so."

"Michelle!" 

"It's fine, Erin, really," he said, squirming beneath their pitiful eyes, Michelle's especially. "If anything, it's brought me closure. I’ve always had an inkling that she regretted having me, and now I finally know where we stand,” he regarded them, softly, despite the sadness in his eyes. “And you barmy lot are all the family I need.“

Clare’s lip wobbled, in awe with James' warm words. She leaned toward him and placed her head on his shoulder. "We're glad to have you back, James."  
  


Michelle feigned a retch. While James smiled, one that wilted slightly when Erin placed her head against his chest and wrapped an arm around his middle. She smelled refreshing, like citrusy sun-lotion.

"I second that," she hummed. 

James' heart stuttered like a stone across water, then sped up even further when it occurred to him that she might be able to feel it pounding in his chest.  
  


He'd only back in Derry for ten minutes, and he was already back to what he did best – making things between himself and Erin weirder than they needed to be.

Was he tensing too much?

Breathing at an odd rhythm?

Maybe he ought to hold his breath altogether. 

_No_ , bad idea. That would definitely seem unnatural.

What if he just gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze? That seemed like a good option. It was better than just sitting there like a statue.

He moved his hand just as the front door opened. Erin lifted her head to look toward the sound but left her hand on James’ chest. 

" Christ, but I'm gaggin' for a beer."

Martin Mallon, in his fluorescent jacket and grubby trousers, trudged into the living room after a laborious morning of bricklaying. He was breathless and tugging on the front of his brick-dusted t-shirt to cool himself down. His bushy eyebrows shot up when he saw Erin and Clare snuggled up to his nephew.

"How a scrawny wee limey like you manages this," he gestured to them collectively. "I will never understand. You're one jammy fecker, James."

"Erm...thank you?" He frowned, not sure whether to be offended or flattered.

"How was your Ma, by the way?"

"I don't know,” James told him. “She sold the house and disappeared."

"Ah, crying shame that," said Martin with a click of his tongue, as if it were a minor inconvenience.

”What’s got you out of breath, Da?” Michelle asked.

”That stunner from across the road, with the big knockers,” he grinned, squeezing the air with both hands. A jape that would certainly earn him a dead-arm if he came out with it in Deidre’s presence.

Michelle laughed.

”Nah, it’s that mental cat the O'Neills' have got. Chased me down the fucking street, so it did. Our Sean saw the whole thing and he told me that loads of people have complained about it. Apparently, Mrs O'Neill is to see a priest about an exorcism. What a waste of a man's time. A bit o’ holy water won’t do anythin’, it needs euthanising!”

Oh, how James had missed Derry.

”Maybe it was already euthanised,” Orla chimed in, speaking for the first time since they arrived at the Mallons'. ”Maybe it’s a Vampire cat.”

Erin rolled her eyes. “Christ, I knew we shouldn’t have watched The Lost Boys last night.”

“Aye, could well be, lass, ” Martin said to Orla, humouring her. "Anyway, you wains need to get a shift on. I've only got an hour's lunch break, and I don't want to spend it listenin’ to your teenage bullshit,” he told them, with a bluntness typical of a Mallon. “No offence.”

"Can I borrow a couple' a quid for the Caf then, Da?" Asked Michelle.

Martin slapped some loose change in his daughter’s hand. "That's your lot, now get the fuck out of my living room, ” he ordered. "And mind out for that cat!”

As they set off for the Café, they made sure to take the long way around to avoid the O’Neills' cat. Michelle had to yank Orla — whose eyes were glued to her Tamagotchi, out the path of a lampost. Then, Erin excitedly gripped James' arm. "Ooh!" She exclaimed, and he looked at her with confused amusement, his gaze silk-soft as it always was when he regarded Erin. "You'll never guess what Clare's gone and done while you were away."

James looked at Clare with intrigue. "What did you do, Clare?"

Clare beamed proudly. "I pa—"

"She passed her driving test!" Erin cut in. "Isn't that class?!"

Clare shared her exasperation with James, glancing at him with a tight-lipped expression that prompted him to swoop in before any tensions could be sparked. Erin was easily blinkered by her emotions. But however grating it could sometimes be, she meant well.

"See? I told you you were fretting over nothing!" he praised. "Congratulations."

"Thank ye," she replied timidly.

"Tell him what else," Erin encouraged, nudging her with her elbow. "Go on!"

" _All right_ , Erin!" Clare snapped, still annoyed at her for stealing her thunder. "My folks are buying me a car for my eighteenth.”

"Ak, that's cracker!" Exclaimed Orla, who'd been in a world of her own the first time Clare told them this - Erin glanced back at her, surprised to see that she'd finally looked up from the plastic gadget in her hand. "I wannae learn to drive."

Erin snorted, sliding her thumbs through the belt loops on her shorts as she walked. "Woe betide the poor soul who has to sit in a car with you. "

Orla glowered at her, slack-mouthed. “I do not accept that.” 

"Of course. It’s your birthday this Sunday,” James recollected. "Do you know what sort of car you're getting, then?" 

"Not a clue. But I don't mind. I'm just buzzin' to be given one in the first place.”

"At least we won't have to take the manky bus to school anymore," said Erin. She gave a short, smug laugh. "We'll look well cool rockin' up in our new ride."

" _My_ new ride." Clare corrected.

"Speakin' of new rides," said Michelle, stopping dead in her tracks. "Who is that absolute stallion?"  
  


A group of lads were gathered around the Café, laughing and swearing at an unnecessary volume. The local wankers. The biggest one was John-Paul O'Reilly. But there was one particular lad a few metres away from them that James didn't recognise. The lad that Michelle was currently gawking at.

He was topless and leaning against the seat of a motorbike. His brown hair was cut into that weird curtain-style that only Robbie Williams could get away with. But most sickeningly of all, he was pouring a bottle of water on himself.

"Fuck. _Me_." Michelle marvelled.

"I'm feeling _really_ thirsty all of a sudden," said Erin, her voice taking on a gruff quality as she watched the water cascade down his abs.

James' gritted his teeth. "Then it's a good thing we're right next to a Cafe, come on—"

"You folks head inside, I'll be in in a moment," said Michelle, flipping her curls over her shoulder. "With this lad's number in my pocket." 

"Oh, I don't think so somehow—" Erin muttered, following at Michelle's heels with a gait that made her look like she'd forgotten how to walk.

He shouldn't be bothered by it. This was eye-roll inducing behaviour coming from the girls, and he'd witnessed it on multiple occasions.

But this time, it infuriated him.

"Straight people." Clare remarked, scrunching her nose in distaste. "Well, I'm not standing out here to roast. Come on, we'll wait for those eejits inside."

Orla had already rushed ahead of them, chocolate-chip ice-cream on the brain. But James didn’t move. He was taken up with burning an imaginary hole through the skull of this new lad.

"Are you comin', James?"

"Sorry?" Reluctantly, he tore his burning gaze away. "Oh, right. Yeah."

* * *

"Bout ye?" Michelle greeted the lad confidently. Erin appeared at her side, earning herself a glare as she bumped clumsily into Michelle’s shoulder. She couldn’t help it. She tended to become slightly off-balance when she was nervous.

"Yeah, er," Erin began, her eyes shifting in a quiet panic when she realised she didn't have anything smooth to say. "It's nice weather we're having, don't ye think?"

"Nice weather?" said Michelle through a sharp, half-whisper. "Are you fuckin' seventy?"

A sheepish look drifted across Erin's face.

"Yeah, it's class weather," the new lad agreed, handing back Erin's stolen confidence on a silver platter. "I haven't had the pleasure. My name's Eirin."

"Really?" Erin beamed, placing a hand on her chest in pleasant surprise. Already jumping to the conclusion that they were made for each other. "My name's Erin, too."

He smiled. "A beautiful name for a beautiful lass."

"Awk, I could say the same about you," she blushed, before proceeding to stumble over her words. "Not that you're a lass. You're a lad... _obviously_ —"

"Stop talkin' Erin," ordered Michelle, shoving her hand in her face. Erin shoved it down, disgruntled. Michelle smiled flirtatiously at Eirin. "My name's Michelle. It's _French_. It _means_ beautiful.”

  
Erin scowled. _She’s talking out of her arse._

He gave her a slightly uneasy smile, his eyes shifting to the finger she was trailing along his muscular arm. "That's nice."

"We haven't seen you around here before.”

"Aye, I'm at Belfast Met, but I'm visiting my family for the summer."

"What is it you're studying?" Asked Erin, with keen interest.

"Engineering," he replied. "I'm into my second year now. What about you girls?"

"Oh, we're in Upper Sixth," Erin told him. 

Eirin nodded. "And have you thought much about what you wannae do after you leave?" 

"Absolutely," Erin straightened up, taking on that high-and-mighty expression of hers that never failed to make Michelle cringe. "I'll be going to University. I'm an _avid_ writer, you see, and I'm hoping to go into journalism."

"That's grand,” he smiled at her brightly. "What about you, Michelle?"

She shrugged. Michelle was still in the dark when it came to career prospects. And her Ma’s constant nagging didn’t help. Recently Deidre had been trying to talk her into a nursing career. As much as she respected her Ma’s line of work, she couldn’t be doing with wiping arses and pouring out bedpans for a living.

“That depends,” she replied. “Are all the lads that go to Belfast Met as good-lookin' as you?" 

  
"Well, that's somethin' you'd have to find out for yourself. There's an open day coming up in August. I'd be happy to show you girls around if you ever find yourself wanting a wee gander."

"That'd be–!" Erin cut herself off with a squeak, realising how over-eager she sounded. She promptly cleared her throat and neutralised her expression. "I mean, yeah. Sounds good to me."

"We’d _love_ to,” said Michelle in an exaggerated drawl that was deliberately meant to magnify Erin’s awkwardness. 

Eirin nodded. "Great. Well, it was grand chattin' to you both. But I should probably get this ice-cream back before it melts." He patted his bike's storage compartment.

As he swung his leg over the seat, an idea twinkled in his gorgeous blue eyes. “One other thing,"

" Yeah?" Said the girls, in unison.

" My cousin's forcin' me to help out with her eighteenth this Sunday. It's a cheesy wild-west theme, and I've been dreadin' it like the pits of hell. But sure, it'd be a lot more bearable if you came along.”

"We'll be there," Michelle purred. Her mind’s eye already conjuring up images of him in a cowboy hat...and nothing else.

"Aye, that’d be great craic," said Erin in a small voice. Her confidence had once again died down to embers.  
  


" Grand.” Eirin pulled his shirt back on and wrote down the time and address on Erin’s arm. She blushed the whole time, but had enough composure to give Michelle a shit-eating grin. She stood with tightly folded arms, refusing to look at her.

“S’pose I’ll see you on Sunday then, girls." Eirin pocketed his pen, winked, and then drove off down the road - the engine roaring.

Michelle whipped around to Erin, elated. "Holy _fuck_ , did you see that sexy wink he gave me!"

"Catch yourself on," Erin scoffed. "He was winkin' at me!"

* * *

James didn't think he could despise anyone more than John-Paul O'Reilly, but this tosser had knocked him hard off the podium. James watched the three of them through the window, trying to decipher what he was saying to the girls.

"Are you plannin' on eating that ice-cream or wearing it?" Asked Clare, quirking an eyebrow as she watched the minty dessert drip steadily along the cone and down his fingers.

James' head snapped away from the window. "Fuck!" He swore, licking up the drizzles of ice cream that were racing along the length of his arm. When he returned his intent gaze back to the window, the tosser had mounted his poxy bike and was revving up his engine. James willed the good lord to send the guy arse over tit, but had no such luck.

The girls entered the Café and went to the counter, bickering with each other in between their orders - much to the visible ire of the server. 

"Why can't you just let me have this one, for once?” Erin complained as they joined them at the table. Michelle, with her salted caramel milkshake, and Erin a bowl of lemon sorbet. 

" _Because_ , Erin, he's more on my level than he is yours." Michelle unwrapped her straw and blew its paper-covering directly into James' eye. 

" Ah!" he hissed, blinking rapidly. 

"What are ye on about?" Erin argued.

"He's a bad-boy," she explained. "He needs a lass who knows how to have a good time."

"I know how to have a good time! And just because he's got a motorbike, does not make him a 'bad-boy’. Sure, even my Da used to have a motorbike, and he's the furthest thing from a bad boy."

"Can we talk about literally anything else?' James complained flatly.

"We're not gonnae replace you if that's what you're worried about," Erin assured him.

"We might." Michelle glanced at her cousin, earning herself a scowl before she went back to her quarrelling with Erin. "You have the same name, as well. It'd just get confusing."

"That's a _shit_ argument!"

James suppressed a snicker that made him choke on his ice-cream. "He's got a _girl's_ name?"

They both glared at him as he laughed, watching the ice cream drip down his chin with disgust. He reached for a napkin, still laughing as he wiped it away.

"It's a unisex name, James," explained Erin. 'It comes from the Gaelige word for Ireland." 

"Ignore the anglo-dickhead," Michelle told her. "He doesn't even know how to eat an ice-cream."

James dissolved into a strop, shrinking into himself.

" If I may interject," said Clare, swallowing down a spoonful of her banana-split. She waved the utensil at the girls. "You do realise that the lad has the ability to make decisions for himself?"

Michelle and Erin stopped talking and exchanged glances. Clearly, they hadn't learned anything from the Friends Across the Barricades disaster.

Clare rolled her eyes. 

"She's got a point," Erin's lips curved smugly. "We'll just have to wait and see who Eirin chooses."

  
"Pfft, that's a no brainer."

  
"Aye, you just keep tellin' yourself that, Michelle. But that wink he gave me suggests differently."  
  
  


"Could’ve been a friendly wink," Orla piped up, using her finger to scoop up the remaining ice-cream at the bottom of her bowl. 

" There's no such thing as a friendly wink!" Erin snapped.

“And the wink was aimed at me!" Michelle insisted.

"Maybe the sun was in his eyes," James suggested, and the glare he received from his cousin was a punch within a look.

"Look, regardless of who the wink was aimed at," Erin sighed. "He wouldn't have invited me to his cousin's eighteenth if he wasn't interested in me." 

"He invited me too, Erin." 

"And yet I'm the one with the deets on my wrist!” Erin waved her arm in Michelle's face. "Digits included!"

Michelle swatted her away, irritably.

Meanwhile, the knot in James' stomach tightened. It was a bit red-flaggish that this 'Eirin' just so happened to be carrying a pen. Which raised the question — did he give his number to every girl he clapped eyes on?

"He invited you to a party?" James frowned. 

"Do keep up, James,” said Michelle.

"This Sunday," Erin confirmed. "You're all invited."

" As our plus ones," Michelle added.

"I think the whole point of bringin' a ‘plus one' is that you bring _one_ person," Clare told her. "Anyway, you seem to be forgetting that it’s _my_ birthday on Sunday! We’re meant to be having a movie night!”

"Why would you want to stay in your boring fucking house, when you can go to a party and get pished?” Michelle questioned. “We’ll pretend it’s your party, seen as you weren't allowed to have one.”

“Oh, well that’s very generous of ye!” She retorted.

”Come on. It’ll be a lot more fun than sittin’ on our arses watching The Shark Tank Redemption.”

Clare gritted her teeth. “ _Shaw-shank_ Redemption.” 

“It's near Jenny’s," Michelle crooned, in a persuasive, sing-song tone. "That's how you know it’ll be great craic!”

“ _Please_ , Clare? This is a _once_ in a lifetime opportunity!” Erin begged.

“Fine! Whatever,” Clare relented, sick of listening to their mithering. “But this time, nobody better do anythin' to make us look like a bunch of balloons. And yes, I’m talking about you, Erin,” She addressed her, alluding to the painfully awkward misunderstanding at Jenny’s Ukrainian welcome party.  
  


“Come _off_ it! That was two years ago!” Erin scoffed, with a burst of nervous laughter. James wasn't fast enough to catch the diverted glance in his direction. 

"Aye, and we haven’t been invited to a party since.” Michelle reminded her, dryly.

"But what I wannae know is," Orla piped up, straightening in her seat with a bored sigh. She couldn't understand why they were leaving out the most important details. "Will there be a chocolate fountain?"

Michelle rolled her eyes. "Fuck if I know. But everyone’s supposed to dress up like cowboys. Or cow-girls, cow-people anyway. I’m sure you’ll buzz off that."

Michelle wasn't wrong. Orla's lips stretched into a wondrous grin, accentuated by the chocolate ice-cream slathered around her mouth.

James sulked as he bit into his now empty ice-cream cone.

The one day that he didn't have to spend slaving away in a chippy, he instead had to spend listening to Erin and Michelle harp on and on about this Eirin guy. He was almost relieved when they all went home, and he could seethe over the existence of this prat away from suspicious eyes.

He would much rather stay in and melt his head watching Heartbeat with his aunt than go to this party. But he wasn’t about to let the girls go on their own knowing bugger all about the guy.

There might not even be a party. He could be luring them into some sort of trap for all they knew – he looked dodgy enough to fit the profile. The way he’d been eyeing up Erin had been nothing short of predatory, and James had to make sure he didn’t try anything.

* * *


	3. Clare's New Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clare receives her new car, but it's not exactly how she pictured it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I be doing college work? 
> 
> Yes. 
> 
> Am I going to keep writing my Derry Girls fic instead? 
> 
> Absolutely. 
> 
> It’s for mental health purposes :)

Chapter Three

Clare’s New Car

  
  


_5th July 1999._

_Dear diary,_

_This is class!_

_Yesterday, when the girls and I went to the Café to grab some ice cream, we met this drop-dead gorgeous fella. He has hair like Robbie, eyes as blue as the ~~sky~~ Mediterranean, and his skin has been well and truly kissed by the sun. _

_There is no way he's a full Irishman._ _He looks nothing like the local boys in Derry, kicking about looking like cooked lobsters. His cheeks are hollow, but not too hollow as to make him look weird, and he's got to be at least six foot tall! But to top it all off, he shares my name! Erin and Erin. It's so unique! Like something out of an edgy romance novel._

_I don't care what Michelle says, this is more than just a coincidence! He's my soulmate, and I know it!_

_Anyway, he invited us to his cousin's cowboy birthday party on Friday, and it's on the same road as Jenny's mansion! Clare's birthday also happens to fall on that day, and she wasn't allowed to have a house-party (plus the thought of it makes her spin-out ), so it's a win-win situation! My Da won't get the chance to embarrass me either because we're gonna rock up in Clare's new car like the adult individuals we are._

_I am absolutely buzzing!_

_Another thing is that James came back from London today. He claims to be grand, but I know that he's hurting inside. I definitely would be if I was in his shoes. Kathy has only gone and left him in the dust – and it seems like it's for good this time._

_We'd all been missing him so much, Michelle especially. You could tell because she kept going on about how great it was not to have him "hanging off her leg all the time"._

_James doesn't seem to like Erin, or Eirin, or Errin — I'm not sure how he spells his name yet —'. But we've given him plenty of reassurance that we're not going to replace him. Nobody could ever replace ~~my~~ our wee English fella. _

_Anyway, I best get a shift on. Mammy's been shouting me for dinner, and now she's threatening to use the wooden spoon._

_-Erin. xxx_

* * *

Erin slammed her diary shut, shoved it under her mattress and scurried out of her bedroom. When she entered the kitchen, everyone was gathered around the table, helping themselves to beef stew, boiled tatties, creamy mash and vegetables. Erin's mouth watered and she took the empty seat next to Orla, who was piling mash and beef into a Yorkshire pudding and eating it like a sandwich.

As Erin sat down and scooted closer to the table, Mary eyed her suspiciously. "What's got you so smiley? What are ye up to?"

"Aye, what are ye up to?" Anna repeated from the opposite side of the table, gravy drizzling down her chin. Gerry reached out and wiped it away with a napkin.

"I'm not up to anythin'," Erin replied, bringing her fork to her curled lips. "Am I not allowed to smile?"

Mary gave her a pressing look.

" _Fine_. If you must know, I met a really nice lad today, and he invited me to his cousin's 18th this Sunday."

Gerry's head snapped up.

Joe almost choked on his stew.

"Did he now," said Mary, with forced intrigue. "And what's this lad's name?"

Erin beamed with excitement. "His name is Eirin, would you believe it? He goes to Uni in Belfast, but he's visiting his folks over the summer."

Sarah raised her pencilled eyebrows, impressed. "Ach, an older fella. Well caught, love."

"Belfast!?" Joe exclaimed, a hand hovering over his full mouth.

"University!?" Gerry added, incredulous.

"Just how old is this lad!?" Asked Mary.

Erin looked between them all, her heart sinking. She'd said way too much in her excitement. She should've anticipated this.

"Oh come off it," she told them, scowling. "He's only two years older. And he's very respectable!"

"He's a predator!"

Erin rolled her eyes. "Granny McCool was _five_ years younger than you, Granda!"

"Aye, but we were grown-ups!" Joe's head snapped towards Gerry as if the man had put the lad up to it himself. "Well, are you gonna say something' or not? I bet you think this is normal considering how you lured my Mary into your grubby hands!"

Gerry stopped shaking the pepper. "I do not! And I did not!" His eyes flitted to Erin as he shook pepper onto his dinner. "You're not going to that party, love."

_Unbelievable!_

" _What?_ I am almost an adult, you can't tell me where I can and can't go!"

Mary lowered her fork. " _Almost_ being the operative word. You don't know anything about this lad, and you're under my roof, so what I say, goes!"

"Aye, what mammy says, goes." Little Anna mimicked, narrowing her eyes at her sister and spraying bits of chewed up potato onto the table-cloth.

Erin crinkled her nose in disgust.

"Ach, Anna. Don't talk with your mouth full!" Mary reprimanded, wiping up the bits of food with a napkin. She looked back at her eldest. "You told me it was Clare's birthday on Sunday, anyway. What, you were just going to abandon the poor girl for this lad, were ye?" 

"No, we're gonnae be spending the whole day with her. We're classing this as an evening reception, of sorts." Erin told her, locking her knees under the table in desperation "Ach, Mammy _please_!"

"I've told you No, Erin." She snapped, with a withering glare. "And you're on washing up duty for the back-chat."

Anna mockingly poked out her food speckled tongue. Erin aggressively returned the gesture, burning with frustration.

She finished her meal in submissive silence and maintained her sulk all night long, scouring away at the dishes in silent rage as she tried to think of a way around her idiotic slip-up.

* * *

"Crying shame that, Erin. Looks like it's just gonna be me, James, and Clare then." Said Michelle, turning away from her bedroom window, hooped earrings swinging. She was braced against the sill, tapping the ash from her cigarette.

"Like Hell!" Erin exclaimed, from the end of Michelle's bed. "You've got to help me come up with a plan."

Michelle shook her head slowly, feigning uncertainty. "Well, if your Ma said no, then she said no."

Erin groaned irritably. "If you don't help me I'll just march downstairs right now and tell Deidre not to let you go, either!"

Michelle narrowed her eyes. "You wouldn't dare."

Erin looked at her challengingly and leaned slightly forward, her hands flat against the duvet. "Aye, I would."

"I don't understand," Orla piped up, sitting up on her elbows and looking to Erin. She was lying sideways across Michelle's's bed, a Chupa-Chup lodged in her mouth "If aunt Mary isn't letting us go to the party, then why are we buying costumes?"

"Because we're going anyway, Orla!"

"Look," said Michelle. "It's Clare's birthday on Sunday. Mary knows that, so just tell her that you'll be staying' round Clare's as planned, and we'll sneak out while her folks are asleep."

Clare baulked. "Absolutely not! My Ma is the lightest sleeper in Derry, she wakes up if the wind changes direction. There's no way we'll be able to get through the front door — which may I add, hasn't been oiled since the seventies."

Erin completely disregarded her words. "We'll be getting' there a bit later than we would have liked, but at least we'll still get to go! We'll...just... we'll just jump out of the window!" She sputtered, her lips struggling to keep up with her brain. "Aye! We'll jump out the window!"

"Yesss!" Orla exclaimed, breaking the lolly with her teeth. "But won't we need parachutes?"

James, who was slumped in Michelle's inflatable armchair, frowned. "You say that as if it's the most obvious solution, Erin."

Clare shook her head at the ludicrous idea. "I am not risking my neck, literally and metaphorically just so you two can fight each other for a place on that Eirin fella's lap."

James shoved that abhorrent mental image out of his head as soon as it invaded.

"We're not asking you to," said Erin gently. "You don't have to come if you're scared of your Ma. We'll get the bus."

She scoffed and folded her arms across her chest in an attempt to look tough. "I'm not scared of my Ma."

Michelle laughed, and smoke billowed from her nostrils. "Aye, and I'm training to be a nun."

"Please come with us, Clare!" Erin nudged her, suggestively. "You might even _lasso_ a lass."

Michelle cringed at that terrible play on words but backed Erin up nonetheless. "Exactly. This isn't just for our benefit."

Clare's resolve seemed to falter then. And for the second time, she found herself giving in to them.

"Fine! But I am not jumping out of any windows. We'll leave through the side door."

Erin and Michelle cheered in triumph.

Up until now, James had been smiling discreetly to himself. He bolted upright, looking at them all disapprovingly. "Hang on, we can't go against Mrs Quinn's authority."

"Cry about it, James." Michelle jabbed, taking another drag of her cigarette and blowing it out into the summer air. "What's your issue, anyway?"

"My issue is that this party could be a trap to lure you somewhere. He could be a murderer, or...or a _rapist_. Or both."

"You sound like my Granda," said Erin, amusedly. "And in the unlikely event that you're right, we'll have you to protect us."

The sincerity written in her expression tossed James through a loop. He couldn't seem to look away from her then, couldn't hold on to his frustration. It was Erin who eventually snapped her gaze away, suddenly finding the tassels on Michelle's blanket very intriguing. James quickly followed suit, awkwardly clearing his throat.

"Yeah, well. My point remains."

Out of the three of them, Clare was the only one of their mates who sensed the subtle shift in dynamic. She looked pensively between Erin and James but didn't point anything out.

"Erin's right, you know," said Michelle, almost gently.

Then,

"You'd make a perfect human-shield."

* * *

The girls started their quest to find western costumes at the slightly dodgy (and a wee bit musty) fancy dress shop down in the town centre. They were all using what little they had left from previous birthdays. Except for Michelle, of course. She'd nicked a few quid from her brother because he still owed her for the alibi she gave him after he'd spray-painted a 'derogatory slur' on the wall of a Protestant pub.

As for James, he was using his chippy wages combined with the money Paul had forcefully shoved into his pocket.

The costumes they found, however, were thirty quid and over and way too raunchy, even by Michelle's standards.

"Why don't we nip to the second-hand shop over the road? You can find all sorts in there. I'm sure it won't be difficult to find boots and stuff." Suggested James.

"You need your head checked if you think I'm wearing someone else's grimy old boots."

"Needs must, Michelle." Said Erin, leading the way out of the shop.

James was right. They discovered a plethora of old boots for sale at the Red Cross shop. Unlike the tacky plastic costume boots at the fancy dress shop, they were authentic looking. And it wasn't like they had to be fully decked out. All they needed was a hat and a pair of boots, and they could finish off the look with whatever was in their own wardrobes.

"Do I look like I'm ready to buck a stallion, or what?" Asked Michelle, posing in the mirror with a pink glittery cow-girl hat on her head.

"You look like you're ready for a tacky hen-night," Erin told her, rummaging in a big box of second-hand boots.

There was a gasp of delight from the other side of the shop. And the girls paused their browsing to see Orla holding up the most hideous cow costume as if it were a Gucci dress. It had a similar look to one of those hazmat crime scene suits, except it had black and white splodges, a disturbing set of udders on the belly, and horns fixed to the top of the hood.

Clare deadpanned. "You can't be serious."

Oh, but she was.

"It's perfect," Orla murmured to herself. "I'll be the best cow-girl out of the lot of ye!"

"Orla, when we said cow-girls, we didn't mean the animal..." Erin trailed off as her cousin rushed past her so fast that she felt a draft hit her. She made an eager bee-line for the changing cubicle, shoving a disgruntled Michelle out of her way.

"Never mind," said Erin, chuckling to herself as she moved on to the second big box.

"Okay, honest opinions. How does this look?" Came James' voice. "I couldn't find any men's boots, so it looks like I'll have to wear my docs."

Erin glanced up briefly and caught his reflection in the adjacent mirror — he'd plonked a perfectly fitting western hat on his head. When he tipped it at her, _that_ feeling came.

_Oh, Christ. Not that feeling again._

James shifted beneath her unreadable gaze and dropped his smile. "What? Do I look like a tit?"

Erin blinked. Trying to ignore the tingling heat which had very nearly sent her stumbling backwards into the clothing rack behind her. "Yes. I mean, no," she bumbled. "You look cracker, James."

James rubbed the back of his neck, timidly.

"I'm just, erm..." Erin suddenly felt like her thoughts were written across her forehead in bold marker. She grabbed two odd boots from the big box. "Gonnae try these on."

"But those are odd—" James' words died on his lips. "...Pairs."

Erin scurried off, her embarrassment sky-rocketing when she tripped over a swell in the poorly laid carpet. She burst into the second cubicle, now free to scrunch up her burning face as tightly as she pleased.

All he did was put a hat on his head. Still, apparently, it was enough to send her running into a changing cubicle, questioning her sanity.

* * *

The following day, Clare stood in the driveway, a giant number 18 badge pinned to the front of her dungarees as she bounced on the soles of her docs, barely able to contain her rising excitement.

Geraldine Devlin shook her head, a hint of amusement in her expression as she brought her morning brew to her lips. It didn't seem so long ago since Clare was learning to ride her wee bike. Geraldine laughed to herself as she pictured her wobbling down this road with the fear of God in her eyes, screeching for her Da not to let her go.

Of course, she had taken to it like a duck to water, despite her making a big drama out of it. Clare was like that, always doubting herself despite her many successes. Things had been no different with her driving lessons. But here their little girl was, eighteen years old and about to drive her first car; and after passing her test on the first examination!

Where in God's name had all that time gone?

"Don't you be workin' yourself up too much, Clare. You know what can happen, "Geraldine warned her. "We forked out enough money without you boking all over the seats."

Clare rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to boke, Mammy."

"Famous last words," Geraldine mumbled.

A horn blared, and Clare practically leapt on the spot, her heart soaring with anticipation as the car turned the corner at the bottom of the road. Geraldine placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder, her smile growing at the same rate Clare's was shrinking.

"Happy Birthday, Clare bear!" Exclaimed Sean Devlin, poking his head out of the window and beating down on the horn. Clare tensed up, her eyes shifting self-consciously to the windows of the neighbouring houses. Curtains had begun to twitch, and people were _looking._

She hadn't been expecting a Ferrari, but _Jesus Christ._ It looked like it was straight out of a cartoon with its migraine-inducing paint-job and overall cuboidal appearance. She was half expecting one of the Mr Men to be sitting in the passenger seat.

Just when she thought it couldn't possibly get any worse — It did.

The car pulled up outside the house, the engine died down. And Clare gawked at the logo right in front of her face, horrified.

In a colourful font were the words "Mr Phelan Kids' Entertainment."

Mr Devlin climbed out. "Well," he said, patting the bonnet of the hideous vehicle. "What do you think?"

Clare had to rip her eyes away from the monstrosity to give her father a rigid smile.

"It was imported from Japan apparently," said Geraldine. "But that Mr Phelan fella croaked it and the family wanted rid."

_No wonder._

"Sure, we'll get that logo painted over, and it'll make a grand first car." Mr Devlin smiled.

Clare thought that the entire car needed to be painted over. Better yet, swapped for a different one. But she knew better than to complain. 

"It's...well, it's unique." She squeaked, wanting to cry.

"That's the spirit!" Bellowed Mr Devlin, clamping down a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Why don't ye take her for a spin, love?"

"I will Da, but the girls are comin' over in a few minutes."

_Christ. The girls are coming over in a few minutes._

Sean nodded and handed her the keys. "I hope they don't get too jealous of ye."

* * *

"What. The. Fuck?" Erin gaped.

"Aye, we know you're a lesbian Clare, but seriously...a rainbow car?" Said Michelle, her hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans. They were all gathered around the eyesore parked in the driveway.

Clare glowered at her.

"It's so cracker!" Orla beamed, clapping and jumping on the spot.

"You would," Erin told her as she inspected the vehicle. She walked around to the other side and let out a hearty laugh. Clare knew she'd clocked the logo. 

"Sweet mother of Christ, this is fantastic!"

They all rushed to see what her fussing was all about. Clare hid her face, abashed.

"Mr Phelan Kids' Entertainment!" Michelle guffawed. "Talk about a nonce-mobile! I wonder if there's chloroform in the boot?"

Erin's laughing increased to a point where her stomach muscles began to spasm, and she had to steady herself against Michelle, doubling over and gasping.

"Will you two pack it in!" James scolded, looking at the car with fake admiration. "I agree with Orla. I think it's cracker."

"Don't bother trying to make me feel better, James. I know it's horrific." Clare told him. "But I'm glad you find it so 'fantastic', girls. Because this is your ride to that stupid party."

Their cackling died down to short bursts of laughter, and then silence.

**Author's Note:**

> In my little coming-of-age series, the story begins in July 1999 and the girls (and fella) are seventeen going on eighteen.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts!
> 
> —JerinsJackets


End file.
